


come on, chelsea, speak a little french to me

by pluvieux



Category: Original Work, Poetry - Fandom, yeet - Fandom
Genre: Multi
Language: Français
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 11:03:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8622061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluvieux/pseuds/pluvieux
Summary: (title from tfb)i got so lost in thisenglish/french wavering, //// second chapter: all-english translationrun wild





	1. Chapter 1

quietly, step quietly  
i am not done hiding away from the world yet.

je suis sauvage mais je ne suis pas libre,  
"kill them all, boy," said the crow.

i am burning,  
i radiate  
my prolonged supernova bursts from my chest,  
\+ my body paints the walls

"Putain de merde!!"  
non, s'il te plaît, soyez tranquille.  
s'il te plaît, soyez tranquille.  
C'est l'art.

puis-je me tourner vers vous, enfin?  
j'ai essayé de la rejoindre, mais ma main l'a traversée  
\+ tout ce que je sentais était du papier de film.

le mercure fondait en lui, il étouffait  
«Elle ne m'aimera pas,» il pleure  
«tout comme le vous dans mon esprit me hait,  
je peux le sentir de New York.»

it makes sense for it to burst from the swirly bulb  
in his chest,  
he holds idea after idea after idea  
his self worth tied around his creativity, to quote,  
he pulls the ribbon as tight as he can  
in desperate inferiority molded from his sheer paranoia,  
his own self criticism

(his bulb barely has a crack)

«Eli, vous brûlez avec déception, je suis sûr,»  
\+ de tout le chemin ici, j'entends les feux dans la cheminée,  
celui qui réside dans sa poitrine,  
je les entends lécher ses côtes,  
les nerfs qui se connectent à son cerveau

Les charbons tombent,  
\+ le tapis se met au feu  
Je le regarde brûler, impuissant

Après tout, les lucioles tous semblaient s'écrouler quand ils sont entrés en contact avec mes mains

"Je vais bien," souffle-t-il,  
\+ le corbeau regarde au loin,  
dégoûté

le feu ne s'éteignait pas, mais s'enroulait,  
"Il est sous contrôle," exhale-t-il, mais la fumée sort de sa bouche

Le lendemain matin,  
je trouve le corbeau,  
piquetant loin à mes extrémités libres.  
"art, art," il chante  
"art, pour l'art, où est votre âme?" il chante  
"je l'ai laissé sous mon oreiller pour aujourd'hui," je mens.  
je l'ai laissé tomber près des eaux.  
le vent me confrond en me demandant,  
"Est-ce là où il devrait résider?"

(pour expliquer, je ne suis pas sûr.)

La colombe est un poète publié, mais je suis les mots unraveled

De New York, elle connaît mes éclats  
\+ tout comme moi, nous partageons les tremblements

«Je suis une peste,» il est sûr

je me souviens de ce que je faisais pour ta galaxie, + je suis déchiré des autres planètes, non, des astéroïdes, des ordures, que tu laisses entrer dans ton orbite  
Mes pulsars ne suffisaient-ils pas?  
Et moi? Je suis une exoplanète avec six soleils, vous osez?/  
Vous n'êtes qu'une comète.

Je me réveille de ma sieste à cause du corbeau tapotant à ma fenêtre.  
"you may have painted the stars on your ceiling, but, boy, you know you long to lie out here with me." said the crow.  
"i feel too helpless to move," i croak. "it's all written in the stars." the crow replies.  
"all i see is no correlation, only the big dipper, the small one, i know of nothing but adore,"  
"excuses, boy. learn to read," + with that, he flies off

the next time i visit the bookstore, i study the constellations

\+ the next time i wake up, the crow stole away with my fake glow-in-the-dark stars to hide them amongst his nest  
"viens dehors, garçon," said the crow, "viens dehors."  
i sneak out of my window, sliding down + jumping to avoid the thorns of my granny's rosebush

when i look up, my breath hitches as the stars plead me to water the plants of my soul,  
that my body's grown tired from the inside out,  
dry + withered

i wave away the crow pecking at my loose ends + return to my bed.  
my heart aches for the false security the glow-in-the-dark stars provided me.  
(that wretched crow owes me fifteen bucks + money for gas to walmart.)

nonetheless, i put them back up, + the next night,  
it only sparks a sadness in me,  
looming over my lack of productivity,

i resist the urge to throw up my lungs, i shudder, i shake, i simmer + then,  
i fall back asleep.

Le cerf a été abattu par des flèches,  
\+ De son squelette, i stole his antlers  
i tied my hair up into two buns,  
\+ inserted them promptly

the crow watched patiently, then perched on one  
"does this mean your creativity is back, boy?" the crow wondered (so loudly that i heard it)  
"but it's never left," i defend. "you know exactly what i mean, don't you backtalk me. kill them, boy." the crow said.

i once again wave him away from my loose ends.

my friend whose bones have kinks + twists, overhears  
"who is 'them?'"  
Il a peur, je peux l'entendre.  
nonetheless, the closed sign on my body whispers loudly, "please, don't touch me," (i am out of order, as my brain, my body - i am disorder) "there's rats + snakes eating away at the meadow," i deadpan. "the flowers are suffering. the caretaker is in a panic."  
i turn quickly, + run

i have to no time to unwrap his dumbfounded state to understanding

the next night, my tears give way to the night  
stars hidden, + a new moon,  
the crow flies down, but i only see a shadow  
"you'll be back yet, i am sure" the crow said

the next day, i find the feathers of a dove

i walk by, + pretend not to see.  
i ignore my own ache, + the fact that the feathers of my own wings decorate my path  
"owl boy, young little antler boy, star boy, i'll have you kill them yet, boy," the crow said.

i wave it away from pecking at my loose ends.

i've never been a huge fan of finders keepers, + how you two are now cuddled up  
my heart wrenches, but i know my worth,  
\+ my hands, my words, are far out from your reach

(passez)

poésie dans mon âme,  
j'ai envie de vivre

"kill them all, boy," said the crow  
("tuez-les tous, garçon", a déclaré le corbeau)  
\+ so i did.


	2. full-english version

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i mad felt that the poem was best expressed through both english + french, but here's an all-english version

quietly, step quietly  
i am not done hiding away from the world yet.

i am wild but i am not free,  
"kill them all, boy," said the crow.

i am burning,  
i radiate  
my prolonged supernova bursts from my chest,  
\+ my body paints the walls

"Fucking shit!!"  
no, please, be quiet.  
please, be quiet.  
It is art.

can i turn to you at last?  
i tried to reach her, but my hand went through her  
\+ all i felt was film paper.

the mercury melted in him, he choked  
"She will not love me," he cries,  
"Just as the you in my mind hates me,  
I can feel it from New York."

it makes sense for it to burst from the swirly bulb  
in his chest,  
he holds idea after idea after idea  
his self worth tied around his creativity, to quote,  
he pulls the ribbon as tight as he can  
in desperate inferiority molded from his sheer paranoia,  
his own self criticism

(his bulb barely has a crack)

"Eli, you burn with disappointment, I'm sure."  
\+ From all the way here, I hear the lights in the fireplace  
the one that resides in his chest,  
i hear them lick his ribs,  
the nerves that connect to his brain

the coals fall,  
\+ the rug sets to fire  
i watch it burn, helpless

After all, the fireflies all seemed to collapse when they came in contact with my hands.

"I'm fine," he whispers,  
\+ the crow looks away,  
disgusted

The fire was not extinguished, but was coiled  
"It's under control," he exhales, but smoke comes out of his mouth.  
The next morning,  
I find the crow,  
Pecking away at my loose ends.

"Art, art," he sings.  
"Art, for art, where is your soul?" he sings  
"I left it under my pillow for today," I lie. "I dropped it near the waters."  
The wind confuses me by asking,  
"Is that where it should reside?"

(to explain, i'm not sure.)

The dove is a published poet, but I am the words unraveled.   
From New York, she knows my shards  
\+ like me, we share tremors

"I am a plague," he is sure.

I remember what I was doing for your galaxy, + i'm torn apart from the other planets, no, asteroids, garbage, you let into your orbit  
Did not my pulsars suffice?   
\+ What about me? I am an exoplanet with six suns, you dare?   
You're just a comet. 

I wake up from my nap because of the crow tapping at my window.  
"you may have painted the stars on your ceiling, but, boy, you know you long to lie out here with me." said the crow.  
"i feel too helpless to move," i croak. "it's all written in the stars." the crow replies.  
"all i see is no correlation, only the big dipper, the small one, i know of nothing but adore,"  
"excuses, boy. learn to read," + with that, he flies off

the next time i visit the bookstore, i study the constellations

\+ the next time i wake up, the crow stole away with my fake glow-in-the-dark stars to hide them amongst his nest  
"viens dehors, garçon," said the crow, "viens dehors." (come outside, boy,)  
i sneak out of my window, sliding down + jumping to avoid the thorns of my granny's rosebush  
when i look up, my breath hitches as the stars plead me to water the plants of my soul,  
that my body's grown tired from the inside out,  
dry + withered

i wave away the crow pecking at my loose ends + return to my bed.  
my heart aches for the false security the glow-in-the-dark stars provided me.  
(that wretched crow owes me fifteen bucks + money for gas to walmart.)

nonetheless, i put them back up, + the next night,  
it only sparks a sadness in me,  
looming over my lack of productivity,  
i resist the urge to throw up my lungs, i shudder, i shake, i simmer + then,  
i fall back asleep.

The deer was shot down by arrows,  
\+ from its skeleton, i stole his antlers  
i tied my hair up into two buns,  
\+ inserted them promptly

the crow watched patiently, then perched on one  
"does this mean your creativity is back, boy?" the crow wondered (so loudly that i heard it)  
"but it's never left," i defend. "you know exactly what i mean, don't you backtalk me. kill them, boy." the crow said.

i once again wave him away from my loose ends.

my friend whose bones have kinks + twists, overhears  
"who is 'them?'"  
Il a peur, je peux l'entendre. (he's scared, i can hear it)  
nonetheless, the closed sign on my body whispers loudly, "please, don't touch me," (i am out of order, as my brain, my body - i am disorder) "there's rats + snakes eating away at the meadow," i deadpan. "the flowers are suffering. the caretaker is in a panic."  
i turn quickly, + run

i have to no time to unwrap his dumbfounded state to understanding

the next night, my tears give way to the night  
stars hidden, + a new moon,  
the crow flies down, but i only see a shadow  
"you'll be back yet, i am sure" the crow said

the next day, i find the feathers of a dove  
i walk by, + pretend not to see.  
i ignore my own ache, + the fact that the feathers of my own wings decorate my path  
"owl boy, young little antler boy, star boy, i'll have you kill them yet, boy," the crow said.

i wave it away from pecking at my loose ends.

i've never been a huge fan of finders keepers, + how you two are now cuddled up  
my heart wrenches, but i know my worth,  
\+ my hands, my words, are far out from your reach

(pass)

poetry in my soul,  
i want to live.

"kill them all, boy," said the crow  
("tuez-les tous, garçon", a déclaré le corbeau)  
\+ so i did.


End file.
